Freelancette

Last year, after hearing that yet another man--albeit a funny and cool one--had been chosen to host the Oscars, I decided to document the pro-woman moments of the show, praising female nominees for what they said and did instead of what they wore, and panning some of the guys for overlooking their female counterparts. Although there were some lovely moments in the 2006 Academy Awards, the overall event felt, as it usually does, like a 50's high school prom: stilted, formal, with well-groomed fellas on this one of the room and fancy girls on the other. It was rather traditional in spirit.

What a difference a year makes! While many of the recipients of the 79th annual Academy Awards were predictable (Martin Scorsese, The Departed, Helen Mirren, Forest Whitaker), the broadcast itself was practically subversive in regards to gender -- albeit in the most benign, understated and casual way.

I was thrilled to hear that Ellen DeGeneres was going be the second-ever female host of the Academy Awards (the first being Whoopi Goldberg, of course). Some may grumble that this selection was a bit of a cop-out, since Ellen, like Whoopi, is a non-threatening, apolitical lesbian who would be guaranteed to wear unisex ensembles onstage and flirt innocuously with both men and women on camera. In other words, she's not exactly a Venus in chiffon. If I didn't like Ellen so darn much, I might be inclined to agree with these complaints. We make such a big deal about the actresses in their gorgeous dresses –- why not let one of those sparkly gowns take center stage for the entire night? Why relegate the decorated ladies to the decorative roles of presenters and escorts?

But let's face it: a tuxedo-clad lesbian comedian is still a bold departure from the typical tuxedo-clad male comedian who always receives the honor of hosting the show, so I'm going to view this as another step in the right direction. Let's hope that Whoopi and Ellen are paving the way for more women to emcee the event –- or even men who look and dress like women.

As usual, Ellen played successfully to both sides of her fan base: the Hollywood liberals in the audience at the Kodak Theatre, and the Will-&-Grace liberals (the ones who love gays as long as they stay in the television and out of the wedding chapels and churches) watching from home. Although the camera lingered on Ellen’s longtime girlfriend, the gorgeously glam Portia de Rossi, as the host launched into her monologue, Ellen kept yanking the focus back to the hetero faces in the crowd (“Leo is here. I don't have a joke. I just thought the ladies would want to look at him.”). She performed the obligatory mini-swoon at the sound of George Clooney’s name, but also gave an unusual and clever compliment to Philip Seymour Hoffman (“Recently voted People Magazine’s ‘Sexiest Man to Play Truman Capote’”). At one point, it sounded like Ellen might even acknowledge her own role in the proceedings: “Let me say this: if there were no blacks, Jews or gays, there would be no Oscars!” But then she softened the observation with a tepid joke, “Or anyone named Oscar.”

While I’d like to see Ellen get a little edgier and more political, I’m also a sucker for those tepid jokes and her chatty, celebs-are-just-like us brand of humor. I thought Ellen looked gorgeous in both her scarlet pantsuit and her white satin tux, and I chortled when she pretended to pitch Martin Scorsese her screenplay, which she described as a cross between "Good Fellas" and "Big Momma's House" ("I'm calling it "Good Mommas").

Besides, Ellen wasn’t the only lesbian in the house last night –- Melissa Etheridge was also representing, and she clearly wasn’t worried about offending any daytime-television viewers. When it was announced that the music and lyrics Etheridge wrote for “An Inconvenient Truth” won "Best Original Song," she jumped up, whirled around, and planted her lips on her partner, Tammy Lynn Michaels. This wasn’t a familial peck, either. It was a tender, lingering, you-are-my-soulmate kiss, in full view of the cameras. Once Etheridge made it to the stage to accept her award, Michaels was the first person she thanked (Al Gore received a shout-out, too -– but his got cut short!). Etheridge’s behavior would have been outrageously bold if it hadn’t looked so natural and unforced.

Another emotion that seemed beautifully yet surprisingly natural was the outpouring of love for sixty-one-year-old British actress Helen Mirren. All year, it seems, Mirren has been basking in the kind of attention usually reserved for women one-third her age. And it’s not just her star turn in “The Queen” that has people talking. As Mirren floated down the red carpet at the beginning of the night, resplendent in her champagne-colored coif and coordinating gown, my boyfriend gasped, “Wow, she looks great!” (I must admit, it felt rather comforting to envy a much-older woman –- more aspirational than spiteful). He wasn’t the only guy to notice. In the middle of a spirited song-and-dance number about how comedians never win acting awards, Will Ferrell, Jack Black and John C. Reilly asked Mirren which party she was going to (she responded by pumping her fist in glee), before teasing, “Helen Mirren, that Oscar’s coming home with me… Helen Mirren is coming home with meeeee!” This chick really knows how to put the “sex” in “sexagenarian!" The icing on the cake came when Mirren paid homage to yet another grandmother grande dame while accepting her award for "Best Actress." Mirren saluted Queen Elizabeth II for maintaining “her dignity, her sense of duty and her hairstyle” for more than 50 years. “She’s had her feet planted firmly on the ground, her hat on her head, her handbag on her arm and she’s weathered many, many storms. ... If it wasn’t for her, I most certainly wouldn’t be here. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the queen," she said, holding the statuette out to the Botox- and collagen-pumped faces of the crowd.

In a discussion of great, stereotype-smashing, paradigm-breaking feminist Oscar moments, how could I neglect to mention "Best Supporting Actress" Jennifer Hudson? Even Vogue editor Anna Wintour, who once demanded that Oprah Winfrey would have to lose twenty pounds before she could appear on the cover, and who has been infamously accused of "not liking fat people," has embraced the gloriously Rubenesque Ms. Hudson –- who appears on the magazine's March cover, dressed to kill, with pounds intact. Hudson showcased her ample assets last night in two magnificent gowns with plunging necklines (she changed once for her "Dreamgirls" ensemble musical performance), implicitly encouraging woman around the world to flaunt what they've got. Hudson's acceptance speech was also brimming with gratitude for the inspirational women in her life, especially her grandmother.

Finally, I thought it was interesting that Milena Canonero, who won "Best Costume Design" for the extravagant, multi-layered sartorial confections in "Marie Antionette," was dressed in a modified tuxedo. Subversive? Subdued? Or simply practical?

Overall, this year's Academy Awards felt refreshingly egalitarian. There were still prom kings (George, Leo) and prom queens (Gwyneth, Cate), but the real royals of the evening were the unique, quirky nominees and attendees that didn't fit any stereotype (Ellen, Melissa, Jennifer, Helen… as well as Forest Whitaker and Alan Arkin). Ennio Morricone, the 78-year-old Italian composer of more than 400 film and TV scores, was honored for his musical compositions; Sherry Lansing, the first female head of a major movie studio, was recognized for her humanitarian efforts. At the beginning of the broadcast, Ellen mentioned the diversity in the room. She was talking about the different global geographies that were represented, but she could just as well have been alluding to the vastly different physical and sexual geographies.

So maybe it wasn't the most flashy or memorable or shocking Oscars presentation ever. But it was progressive and open-minded in a nicely understated way. And when it seems completely natural to wolf-whistle at senior citizens, to openly admire oversize figures, and to bestow affection on supportive partners (gay, straight or otherwise), that's something to get excited about.

Posted by Corrie at 12:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

The other weekend, we watched "Infernal Affairs," the Hong Kong action flick that served as the blueprint for Martin Scorsese's Oscar-nominated "The Departed." One of the only differences between the two cop films is that the female psychiatrist plays a much bigger role in the American version than in its predecessor (and that's still not saying much). But check out what Kerry sent me the day after we watched the film. This is the promotional poster used for "Infernal Affairs." Looks like the lady with the gun is the star of the show, right? Nope! In fact, this actress is only in the movie for about ten seconds, and she plays Tony Leung's ex, now a happily married young mother! It would've been nice if they'd expanded the female character's part in the movie to match the proportions of this poster. But apparently, the marketing team for this film felt that woman are better posing on posters than acting on-screen.

Posted by Corrie at 2:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Several male friends, having heard of my newfound obsession with Battlestar Galactica, have implored me to put in a good word for the show to their girlfriends and wives. My guess is that these pals have been spending too much time tuning in solo to the Sci Fi Channel, and it’s reminding them of their single days. Well fellas, while I’d be honored to act as the official female spokesperson for BSG, I should tell you that some of the brightest and most discerning broads in the biz have already praised the show to the gods, and you should definitely send those two reviews to your girl (perhaps with a link to this photo). That should pique her interest.

But because you can't say enough good things about BSG, and because it really can be a hard sell, I'll add my two cents.

Ladies, I know exactly what you're thinking, because I was thinking it, too. "Battlestar" and "Galactica" have to be two of the geekiest words in the English language (right up there with "Star" and "Trek"). To a lot of us, outer space is lame, and books, movies and television shows about outer space just don't hold any appeal. When people (mostly male people) first tried to get me to watch BSG, I imagined actors with bad haircuts and polyester spacesuits fighting off stiff-limbed RoboCops in the neon-green glow of their pseudo-futuristic computer consoles, and I claimed I was too busy re-watching Season Two of "Lost" to get involved with another television show. I nearly wrote BSG off forever after I heard a dorky loser on "Veronica Mars" use the word "frack," which, it was then explained to me, was the preferred curse word aboard the Battlestar. I hate catch phrases almost as much as I hate outer space, so I was convinced I would absolutely despise this show.

My guy friends (and especially, my boyfriend) tried everything they could think of to get me to watch Battlestar Galactica. They raved about the "kick-ass battle scenes!" and "incredible writing!," and when those didn't work, they tried to lure me with the more highbrow "sly commentary on our government, Abu Ghraib and the Iraq war!" and "female president!" But I couldn't get past the spaceship. Excuse me, the battleship.

Even now, it's kind of hard for me to accept that I'm such an passionate fan. The other day, I was trying to explain the show to a girlfriend while riding on the subway, and I became acutely aware of my voice saying things like, "See, there are these robots that have evolved to the point where they look and feel JUST LIKE HUMANS, and they're called Cylons, and the Cylons want to wipe out the entire human race..." Did I just say "Cylons"? Just frackin' shoot me!

While I'll admit that the female president certainly sounded cool, what finally got me was the description of another female character. I was at a party at the end of last year, and one of the guests was raving about BSG. He (of course it was a he) must have made it his New Year's resolution to convince me to watch the show, and he started telling me about Starbuck. In the 1970's original, this guy explained, Starbuck was a hot-shot pilot who smoked fancy cigars and slept with anything that walked (his words, not mine). In the Sci Fi version, Starbuck is still a cigar-chomping bad-ass who has a way with planes and with the opposite sex... but he is now a she. I like female role models. I like formidably awesome chicks. But most of all, I like free stuff, so when I was sent home from the party with a complete DVD set of Season One (courtesy of the party hosts), I figured I could I owed it to everyone to at least make it through the first episode. This was before I knew that the first few episodes were actually part of a three-hour introductory miniseries -- but still, I was hooked from the opening bars of the theme song.

This is important, because music is one of the many, many things that makes BSG so great, and it's something that my male friends never said a peep about. The music is a surprisingly otherworldly mix of Far Eastern string instruments, horns, and pounding drums -- not exactly what you'd expect for a futuristic show set in outer space. It can be hauntingly beautiful or primal and aggressive, and it perfectly underscores the wide range of emotions that this show evokes.

That's another thing that was curiously absent from the evangelizing: BSG is emotionally complex. In the first season (the only one I've seen so far), BSG takes the boilerplate sci-fi plot and makes us think about how it would actually feel to be the last humans alive, to have lost our homes, family and way of life, to be exiled in the vast, unfeeling void of outer space. One would imagine this would totally suck, but most space shows (from "Star Wars" to "Independence Day" to "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy") gloss over the emotional aspect of this situation, focusing instead on the cool battles and the sexy (female) aliens.

By contrast, in one of the very first episodes of BSG, when a new president is chosen to rule over the remaining 50,000 humans, it's not because she's smarter or tougher or more popular than her opponents, it's because the 30-odd government employees ahead of her in line for the job have perished. And when President Laura Roslin is sworn in, she doesn't look righteous, or fierce, or triumphant. She looks sad yet dully determined. You can see that it is not a thrill for her to govern over the last remaining humans alive; it's an enormous and overwhelming responsibility.

(By the way: you find out almost immediately that this wise, wonderful new president is dying of cancer. Whaaa?! Doesn't that make you want to watch?!)

Even the Cylons are incredibly deep and complicated -- they're much more than stock villains. They may have circuit boards for brains and battery packs for hearts, but they also (interestingly enough) have souls. Or at least, they believe they do. These robots are spiritual, and can wax quite eloquently about God and His plans (the humans in the show believe in a pantheon of gods). Some are deeply ambivalent about their relationships with each other, and with the human enemy. In fact, the Cylons are much more like real people than the flesh-and-blood characters on, say, "Three and a Half Men."

And then there's the way that BSG deals with gender. The president is a woman, the ship's ballsiest fighter pilot is a woman, the crafty head Cylon is a woman, and dozens of other smart, highly competent women fill out the ranks on both sides as pilots, technicians, engineers and communications specialists. On the Battlestar, officers refer to their superiors as "Sir," regardless of gender. In this alternate universe, women have finally achieved true equality. It's too bad there are only a couple thousand of them left to appreciate it.

Of course, there are also those amazing battle scenes that we've heard so much about, and I must admit, they're grip-your-chair and hold-your-breath exciting. This show is lightyears ahead of anything else on TV in terms of action and visual pyrotechnics.

But that's not why I've been canceling plans with friends and staying up until 3am to watch yet another episode of BSG. The show really cares about its characters, and so do I. I've cried, shouted, ranted, raved, and accidentally punched my cat while engrossed in the emotional trials and tribulations of the crew of the Battlestar. This was a bit of a surprise to me, as none of my male friends told me about the intense human drama of this show. Not a single one of them advised me to have tissues on hand when tuning in to Season One, or warned me that I might develop several serious same-sex and opposite-sex crushes (although one of my prescient female friends did).

And that's why I feel obligated to pass all of this on to you. It's a great show. Trust me.

Posted by Corrie at 3:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Women's eNews, an online news service infamous for its pre-Internet layout design, gets tech-savvy with this awesome animation of a penitent salaryman:
Japan's Contrite Husbands Rush to Marriage Rescue

Posted by Corrie at 6:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I feel like deep-sixing Studio 60 from my Don't Miss List. Ever since the show took that wacky double-episode detour to Nevada, I just haven't been interested. I don't care about the characters nearly as much as they care about themselves, and the subplots are lame. Then we had this week's episode, with Cal hunting for the coyote hunting for the ferret hunting for the snake under the stage, the maddening Harriet-Matt love triangle (even though there are only two people involved, this relationship is triangular in its complexity), and the feeble Jordan-Danny match. No wonder these guys can't produce a funny skit: they're too busy chasing foxes and coyotes! The only relationship I find at all compelling is the one between the two black writers.

Jordan's smart, independent exec is still a great role model, and Nate Corddry is funny and cute. But they're not enough to carry the show, especially when they're being dragged down by stalker-ish wannabe girlfriends (Kim) and boyfriends (Danny). I can think of better ways to spend my Monday nights (post-How I Met Your Mother) -- like catching up on Season Two of Battlestar Galactica!

Posted by Corrie at 5:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I don't think that Japan's health minister really meant to call women "birth-giving machines" in his recent speech on the falling birthrate. It's clear that something got lost in translation. I think that what Health, Labor and Welfare Minister Hakuo Yanagisawa meant to say was that women are "baby-making machines." Big difference!

But fortunately, the Japanese understood him perfectly. The public has been outraged by Yanagisawa's comments, and Reuters reported earlier this week that high-profile figures from rival parties are demanding for his resignation. "This remark, not just as a politician but as a human being, ignored women's human rights,'' Naoto Kan, a lawmaker with the main opposition Democratic Party, told a television reporter.

Japan is not wrong in panicking about its plummeting birth rate, and trying to find viable solutions (one proposal called for increasing child care and promoting greater gender equality, among other progressive ideas). However, it sounds like some in the current administration are simply passing the burden of responsibility to individual Japanese women, as if it's their job alone to have kids. Some advice to Yanagisawa: referring to women "birth-giving machines" probably isn't the best way to get them in the mood.

Posted by Corrie at 3:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I learned everything I ever needed to know about sex, money and power from Sidney Sheldon, author of beloved pulp classics like "Windmills of the Gods," "Rage of Angels" and "The Other Side of Midnight" (I think it was in that last one that I first encountered the word "turgid." I was able to infer its meaning from a lurid description of a banana-split sex trick). To a shy, bookish kid like me, paging through Mr. Sheldon's steamy novels was the equivalent of sneaking a smoke or a toke. I'd be too mortified to check his books out of our tiny one-room village library, so I'd slip my mom's dog-eared copies out of her beach bag when she wasn't looking, retreat to the backyard or lock myself in my room, and gorge myself on scandalous exploits of his glittering, larger-than-life characters. (In retrospect, I'm sure my mom would have been relieved to know that I preferred reading about his characters' sexcapades to acting out my own).

In a Sidney Sheldon novel, all the women were gorgeous and brilliant, all the men were gorgeous and power-hungry, and everyone was trying to bed everyone else while making millions of dollars and clawing their way to the top. Is it any wonder I originally wanted to work in advertising?

I was sad to hear that Mr. Sheldon passed away last week. I've recently been thinking about him (and V.C. Andrews, the other age-inappropriate author I was obsessed with as a kid). When it came to big, juicy, stories with powerfully empathetic, memorable heroines and heroes, they were the original "Masters of the Game." People just don't write stuff like that anymore. How are today's kids learning about sex? Or better yet, how are today's kids learning about fantasizing about sex? The Internet leaves so little to the imagination!

I imagine Mr. Sheldon's heaven as a penthouse suite with an infinity pool and a view of the horizon, inhabited by suavely confident Greek gods barking orders on cell phones and stunning string-bikini goddesses who wax knowledgeable about cinema while giving massages (using only their breasts). Wherever he is, I hope he's having fun.

Posted by Corrie at 5:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)